


something to cry for, and something to hunt

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-17
Updated: 2007-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nearly two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to cry for, and something to hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/gifts).



> Spoilers for 1x19, and up to the end of season 2. A huge thank you to littledrop for the beta, and to kickaboutheart for the Brit/American check. Title from The National - Looking For Astronauts.

Six months on the road with Dean, solid, and something's got to give. Too close, too long, and they're not saints, neither of them. Nothing like.

Sometimes it doesn't take a trickster to set them at each other's throats. This is one of those weeks, each day a new grab bag argument, grievances plucked out at random and played with until one or both cracks.

Brotherly love only covers over so much.

They're in New Hampshire. Sam gets the idea when he sees a sign for Blake's Haven. A break, for both of them, but it won't seem like he's running out on Dean. He'll get it, this, something for Sam, a few days, a week tops. He'll approve.

They finish the case they're on – the ghosts of children abandoned on a railway line, stalling cars in the path of trains – without killing each other. They shower off the distinctive ugly scent of bone smoke, pack quick before they're told to pay for an extra day, and head out to the Impala. Easy and familiar, and Sam doesn't bother to interrupt the silence with his plans. Just stands at a distance when they get outside, Dean's hand on the Impala, waiting.

"I'm gonna head south," Sam says. "For a few days, see how Sarah Blake's doing."

Dean just nods. "Need a ride to the bus station?" he offers. Doesn't suggest he comes along, doesn't give Sam an attaboy or tell him it's stupid for them to split up again. Just offers a ride like he'd offer a soda.

"It's only a couple of blocks. I'll walk," Sam says.

Dean nods again and drives off. He turns left onto the main road. North. Sam stands there a moment, suddenly bleak, then shakes his head and takes a grip. It's a vacation, of sorts, he should enjoy it.

He's got his feet up on a railing at the bus station, three quarters of an hour to wait, when his phone beeps. A message.

be safe strap up

Sam smiles.

 

*

 

Sam takes the Greyhound. Sense of déjà vu strong, though the roads are different, smoother surfaces, red-gold trees and white wooden fences and puffy clouds he can almost touch instead of big rocks and a distant sky. And this time he's not running away.

He's got some spearmint gum and he's 'borrowed' Dean's ipod – the journey goes fast enough, eyes closed half the time, lulled by the familiar motion of travel. The seat next to him is empty, room to stretch out.

They reach his stop eventually, the destination called out so fast he nearly misses it. Up quickly, and he runs down the aisle, wait up, and the bus driver's shaking his head, more amused than irritated. Someone's grandfather, probably, tolerant of sleepy passengers. Sam mouths a thank you before jumping off.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings. Too many towns since this one, and he's good at directions, but life blurs.

He has no idea if Sarah's still living in the same house, or even still working at the auction house or not. He hasn't called since he left. This is crazy, and she could be married by now, and Sam turning up would be the worst thing.

Doesn't stop him knocking on the door, and hoping.

There's a rustling behind the door, a clank and an oh, shit and then a female voice calls out  just a minute, sorry but it's too muffled for him to be sure it's her.

There's a horseshoe above the door, and an ornamental potted plant on the stoop. Bay, Sam thinks. It's fragrant between his fingers. Reminds him of something. He can't quite place it.

He drops the leaf when the door starts to open. Bites his lip in anticipation. It's been nearly two years.

She looks exactly the same. Hair in pigtails; an ornate turquoise pendant around her neck that matches the blue of her tee-shirt; jeans and socked feet. There's paint on her fingers, and a small streak across her cheek that Sam finds oddly endearing. A little of the hippy look around her, if she'd been born a generation earlier.

"I'm interrupting," Sam starts, even though it isn't what he'd planned to say, nothing like it.

"Sam." She looks at him as though she doesn't believe it's really him.

He's lost for words now, fidgeting on her doorstep like a child.

"You don't write, you don't phone," she sing-songs.

Sam looks at the cracks in the stone of the doorstep. "I'm sorry," he says. She's right, and he has no right to just turn up like this.

"I'm kidding, Sam." And there's laughter in her voice, welcoming. She's ushering him in, and before he knows it he's on the couch – cozy and too small for both of them, perfect – a mug of coffee in his hands. It's good, fresh and strong with just a dash of milk, in a bright blue spotted mug so huge it makes his hands look small. He savors it.

Sarah rests a hand on his thigh. Light touch, like she doesn't want to spook him.

"You look tired," she says.

"No, um, I'm fine." He doesn't know what he is. Not good, not bad, so fine will do.

"I'm just saying, you look like things aren't easy, somehow."

"I should have called," Sam says. He doesn't want to talk about Dean or the deal, or their dad, or any of the other shit that's gone down since they last met.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No. I didn't expect that."

"I never wanted to be one of those guys no one expects anything from."

"Oh, Sam, you're not one of those guys." She takes his coffee, places it on the table beside her. "You could never be one of those guys," she says, and hugs him, tight to her.

He closes his eyes and hugs back, breathes in the scent of apple shampoo and oil paints and turpentine. She's warm and soft and he breathes her in. There's just this, here and now, that's why he's here. To forget a while, to become Sam Winchester again.

 

*

 

She was wearing black. That first time. A little black dress, elegant and expensive, that clung perfectly. Too much makeup, but she was pretty underneath, he could tell.

He saw her, but that was all. A necessary game, digging through his art history memories, passing the test. He saw her, but he didn't let her smile register, or try to remember the gloss of her hair or the inflections of her voice.

It wasn't that he was blind or distracted, wasn't his pure focus on that hunt, or on the demon. He just didn't let himself notice any of the things that made her a woman.

It took Dean's she would want you to be happy. Even though it wasn't about Jess, not really. It was the big picture, the life they lead, and Sam wasn't that guy, who fucked and ran.

Maybe he is now.

Maybe he isn't.

 

*

 

She's painting again, she tells him.

"It's terrible," she insists. "I'm worse than I was at college, and that's saying something." She paces around the room, pointing out faults in each painting on display. The light falls through a skylight, highlighting glints of paint in her hair and the flecks of dust in the air. It's a wide, spacious room, and Sam likes it.

"But you love it, yeah? Love doing it?" he asks, pausing in front of a canvas, blank apart from rough sketching in one corner. He can't work out what it's meant to be.

Sarah pauses.

"It's been therapeutic. Learning all that stuff, it was scary, and painting was familiar. And it's ridiculous, but some of the awful stuff I painted after reading up about ghosts and demons, it sold. People think they're being edgy and modern buying the dark stuff." Sarah laughs, and takes him by the hand. "Here," she says, "what do you think of this?"

It's a portrait, of a sort, but the face is obscured by long fingers, the chin resting on a hand. So close up, there's little more than the hand and a hint of the face visible, but Sam feels the familiarity of it.

"I hope I don't count as the dark stuff," he says.

She shakes her head. "I'm going to frame this. And keep it, obviously."

It makes him wonder what it would be like to really be a part of her life. More than just a painted canvas on the wall. It makes him ache.

 

*

 

Telling Sarah felt as good as the day he stood on top of the Hoover Tower and shouted into the wind, I love Jessica Moore. So freeing, he could do anything, say anything, because the truth was out and that was the hard part, that was always the hardest part.

The details, after that, they were easy. She believed, that was all that was important, and once he started talking, and she started asking, the words came tumbling out, first time ever and such a relief.

 

*

 

"Did you ever paint?" Sarah asks.

"God, no. History of art was good, for, you know, meetin' girls." He laughs, and Sarah laughs back at him. "But I was never any good at the practical side of it."

"Not everyone's naturally good at it – it's something you can learn, to a certain extent."

"Sarah, my stick men are so bad they try to erase themselves."

"That bad, huh?"

Sam nods, and watches her add broad strokes in colors that seem impossible until he turns his head a certain way and sees the whole. They make sense then.

"You're good," he says, and enjoys the pleasure on her face.

 

*

 

"How's Dean keeping," Sarah asks later. They've stayed in for the evening, and Sarah's cooked, spaghetti and meatballs.

"It's—complicated. He's okay, right now, just got a lot on his plate."

"And you don't want to talk about it," Sarah guesses.

Sam pours himself another glass of wine, and tops up Sarah's glass. "I just—I wouldn't know where to begin," he says. "It's one of those things that's been years in the build up, and without giving you a step by step history of our family, I—" Sam gestures, helpless. "I don't think I could make it make sense."

Sarah takes a sip of wine, and nods.

"Do you mind?" Sam asks. "Me not telling you?"

"I'm going to take a wild stab, and guess that more than anything, you want to get away for a bit. Forget. And Sam, you deserve that. To remembering and forgetting," she says, and raises her glass. As their glasses clink, he wonders what she's forgetting, what she's remembering.

The spaghetti and meatballs are good. Messy, and Sam wipes tomato sauce off the corner of Sarah's mouth with his thumb, only to get some down his shirt a minute later.

When he kisses her, she still tastes of tomato and herbs and wine. He traces her cheekbones, finds the curve of her jaw where his thumb fits, and holds her.

When he breaks away she gets up and sits on his lap, facing him. "I really want this, Sam," she says, and that's all the encouragement Sam needs.

He lifts her up and traces her collarbone with his tongue. Wants to push his face between her breasts, find the paler softer skin that's half hidden. Wanted it two years ago – even more now.

The chair is pressing into his back, hard wooden rungs, and she is soft in his hands. Her breath is warm in his hair.

She's rolling her hips, and that, right there, the ridge of her zipper up against his and her slow-burn smile tells him she's felt his want. She slips her hand between their bodies, fingertips tracing the line of his cock, light, and it's not even a fraction of what he needs.

The chair creaks beneath them and Sam lifts them up together, pushing the chair away, barely noticing the crash as it falls. He's grasping and pulling and he hadn't realized she had so many layers on, all fighting him, fabric tangling around his hands. He has no finesse, and it's a rough clumsy dance all the way to her bedroom. In the hallway he frees her breasts, the clips of her bra obeying him at last, and he has to push her against the wall. She leans, panting, while he nuzzles into the crease under her breasts.

"Come on," she urges. He's impatient too.

The last clothes fall in the bedroom doorway, and then she's tugging him. He holds back a moment, watches her lie down. She's gorgeous, chest rising and falling, legs falling open and no shyness.

He kneels in front of her, his hands dark contrast on her pale thighs. There are scars on her knees and he traces them.

"I went over the handlebars of my bike when I was five," she says, watching him. He finds another scar. "I fell off a swing. I wasn't supposed to be playing so I didn't cry, just in case I was found out."

He imagines it, little girl with a determined face, brave with blood running down her leg. His stomach clenches, more than affection, and he kisses each scar.

He traces up, inside her thigh until he reaches trimmed black hair. She's already wet, and he slicks his finger, spreads it around.

"Sam," she begs.

One hand under her ass now, lifting her up and she's giving it up for him, letting him. Anything. Licks a stripe up her thigh and then one hand on her soft stomach, one on the bone of her knee, face in the heat of her cunt. She squirms as he finds the place where his tongue can slip inside her, in and out, fucking her with his tongue, and she's sticky and girl-sex smell surrounds him. He twists his tongue, vague circles and eager loops, and he feels each shudder.

She comes hot on his tongue, bright murmurs she muffles with her arm.

He slides up to kiss her. There are bite marks inside her wrist, and he kisses those first. "I want to hear you," he says, and kisses her mouth to mouth, still sticky from her cunt.

He ruts against her, barely realizing he's doing it, and she wriggles underneath him, legs wrapping around him and pulling him even tighter.

Lifts her jaw so he can kiss her deeper. His hands feel too big all of a sudden, fingers tangling in the wavy soft hair above her ears. He moans, long and low, into her skin. Lets his need vibrate through her as he moves, letting his cock slide between her legs.

"Condoms are in the drawer," she says, and he's ashamed a moment, for forgetting, for not being the one to ask. Too long, it's been too long.

He tears the foil and she holds out her hand. He closes his eyes as she rolls the condom on him, closes himself to the sight of her just a moment.

Eyes open again, and she's beautiful.

She holds her hand out, palm up for him to clasp. And he fucks her while her hand's in his, fingers interlaced. He fucks her with his cock buried deep as he can go and his other hand finding the places that make her voice tremble. He fucks her while she cries his name continuously and he is silent because it's too much for sound.

There's Dylan playing in the kitchen still, husky voice in the background, lulling him. He's sated with food and wine and her, and he falls asleep curled around her, her hand in his again.

 

*

 

He's not prying, she's left her computer on and the browser open. He recognizes the symbols on the page, ancient runes that can be used to curse an object.

She sees him looking. "I had to learn more after you left," she says. "I thought it was scarier not knowing. Turns out I was wrong," she adds. Her look rueful.

"There are a lot of dark creatures out there, and ghosts that have never passed on, and people that aren't who they seem. Hell of a lot of them." He shrugs, wishing he had a better answer. "It really only gets scarier the more you learn."

"Thanks for the pep talk," she says. But not unkindly.

"There's stuff you can do, to keep safe."

"I've found a few things online. And in the library."

"Those were Devil's Shoestrings I saw above your door, yeah? Next to the horseshoe?"

"Yes," Sarah says. Then pulls up a chair beside him. "How do you know which of this stuff works? I mean, I saw iron working on that ghost – I wouldn't have believed it otherwise – but how do you know which is the real stuff, and which is just superstition? Because I can tell you, I've had some weird looks since I put those Devil's shoestrings up, so if they're not going to work, tell me now and save me some embarrassment."

Sam laughs. "It's mostly trial and error. Most of the superstitions have some base in fact, it's whether they're close enough to the fact to work or not. Dean and I, sometimes, on hunts, we've just had to guess and hope."

"You always came out alive though," Sarah says, and Sam's glad she's not looking right at him.

He changes the subject. "Those runes you're looking at, what's that all about?"

"Just me being over cautious. Comes of having sold a cursed painting – that's not something I ever want to do again. Evelyn was a dear friend. So now I check provenance and any other history of items that go through the auction house, look out for anything suspicious. We've got a box in at the moment, from a house clearance in Wappingers Falls. It's got some strange symbols carved into the wood, so I was checking it out."

"And you think the box might be cursed?"

"I thought it was a possibility. Turns out, the owner was just into Tolkein. It reads—"

"'Speak friend, and enter,'" Sam interrupts.

"You geek."

 

*

 

They go to a jazz festival. At first Sam tries not to look too uninterested, but he ends up enjoying it, the music better live than he'd have expected. Mellow and it's a change of pace he welcomes.

There's a small area in front of the band, and a few brave couples are dancing – Sarah looks as though she wants to, but Sam knows his limits and doesn't offer. She doesn't press him.

Instead, they drink good beer and talk, easy casual talk about nothing in particular. It's the most relaxed Sam has felt in years, Sarah's foot kicking up against his shin every now and then, the beer soothing.

Dean would hate it, even with the beer. Too poncy, he'd probably say in a fake British accent. Sam tries not to wish he were here, but it's always fun watching Dean somewhere he hates.

Maybe he'll find a jazz night to take Dean to sometime.

 

*

 

It's strange, falling asleep and waking up with someone beside him, an arm flung across his chest, or a head tucked in under his chin. He's forgotten the feel of it, the comfort of it.

He wakes up and finds her watching him, waiting, and as soon as he opens his eyes she's sliding under the covers. He makes an oh of discovery as her nose nudges into his pubes and then it's all mouth and tongue on his cock, and the pillow is soft under his head, but his head bangs against the headboard – he doesn't feel it.

He can hear her, even under the thick comforter, little murmurs against his skin and the vibration ripples through him until it builds up and up and he can't hold it back.

She comes back up, flushed and tousled, and he tries to pull her into him for a kiss. She jumps off and runs into the bathroom, back in a minute smelling of mint.

They don't get out of bed until midday, and it's not until the sun has moved around from the window that he thinks to ask her about work, shouldn't she be there.

"It's Saturday," she says, and he realizes he's more aware of the phases of the moon or the number of days left in the year than he is of the day of the week.

When they get up eventually, Sarah wants pancakes.

"We can make them," she says, and grabs a blue shirt from the back of a chair. It's his, and it's ridiculous on her, sleeves so long she can't see her hands to roll them up. It hangs down to her knees, and he thinks she looks incredible, the shirt sexier on her than any little black dress.

He tries to tell her, tries to pull it off her and roll her back onto the bed, but she just shouts pancakes at him, and she wins.

She pulls out an old recipe book, covered in dried out batter and egg stains. "My mother's," she says, and he rests his hand on her shoulder a moment.

"Well used," Sam says.

"All the best cook books are grubby. If they're not covered in food, they're no good."

When he kisses her he gets flour in her hair, and a wooden spoon rattles on the floor when he pushes her against the kitchen counter. It's two hours before they finally sit down in front of the TV with stacks of pancakes and maple syrup and vanilla ice-cream, and catch the New York Yankees in the playoffs against the Red Sox. Sarah roots for the Yankees, of course, and spends far too much time admiring Derek Jeter's ass. Sam cheers on the Red Sox just to make her scream at him.

She steals his pancakes and he eats half her icecream, and the Red Sox win.

 

*

 

Sam thinks he should be content, like this. They talk and laugh and make love, and he gets up and brings them coffee back to bed in the morning, and it could be perfect.

It's transient though, and nothing can make him forget that for long. Or Dean. He picks up and saves memories to share with him later. He won't - he never did with all the things he remembered for Dean when he was in Stanford or any other time he's left before, but he still stores them just the same, as if the very act is enough.

It could be perfect.

 

*

 

"I want you to teach me to shoot," she says, sleepy voice against his skin and he thinks he's still dreaming. He doesn't answer, because it's a dream and it'll move on soon, another scene. "You're awake, aren't you, Sam? Sam?" and there's a tap on his shoulder, blunt fingernails.

He rolls over. He is awake after all. One foot is cold, hanging outside the covers, and he stretches his legs then pulls his foot back into the warmth.

"You serious?" he asks.

"Yeah." She looks sad for the asking, and he's sad for her. He thinks the Sarah of two years ago wouldn't have owned a gun, wouldn't have considered it. Something else to add to the list of his guilt.

They take Sarah's car, up to the Catskills. They pull up onto the least used roads that wind smaller and smaller until they're barely roads any more. His spine feels jolted by the time they pull over onto a verge, by a path in the trees that's little more than a pause in the undergrowth. They crunch over fallen leaves.

"I used to love dancing in the leaves in fall when I was little," Sarah says. "Kicking them up, finding the deepest piles."

"You still do," Sam answers.

"True," she says, and kisses him on tiptoe, before taking his hand and pulling him along, faster.

A clearing, small and intimate, and enough birds in the trees to tell Sam no one's passed by lately.

He arranges the empty beer cans they've brought, sits them on a branch like disgruntled metal birds.

He stands behind her, like in the movies, her body in his, her hands under his, and he shows her. He holds her through it, and then he moves back and lets her. She's shaky handed at first, shots wild and the birds are wise to take flight.

"Don't be scared of it," he says, soft in her ear. "No need to be scared."

She gets better then, determined jut of her jaw. She's focused and she keeps going long after he'd thought she'd tire of it. "I want to learn all I can today," she says.

She has a good eye. The cans are battered by the time they gather them up, rushing to beat the black clouds moving in from the west, bringing dark in an hour early.

He kisses her in the doorway while she's fumbling for her keys. "I hope you never need it," he says, and kisses his apology.

 

*

 

Dean circles around to pick up Sam in a few days. Not planned, but expected.

"Do you wanna, you know?" he asks, casually, leaning against the car and cleaning his thumbnail with his pocket knife. Sarah's still inside, wrapping up the sandwiches she insisted on making for them the moment Dean showed up.

"Do I want to what?" Sam's not stupid, but he needs to hear Dean say it.

"Stay. Make something here. Sarah, she's good for you. You could have a life here."

"What, go back to college, find a job, do the odd hunt once a year when you pass by? That's if you're alive, of course." He makes the sarcasm biting. Wants it to slice into Dean's brain and stay there.

"Yeah."

"Are you fucking kidding, Dean?" Sam's holding back. He's not going to get angry.

"No." Dean's serious. Sam can tell. He also knows Dean's scared shitless he'll say yes, and almost as scared he'll say no.

"I'm hunting, Dean. It's what I do now. And yeah, it was good to see Sarah, and maybe there'll be a day when this could be something more. But we're not there yet, might never be. And, you know what? I'm good with that." He'll have to say it again before Dean will believe it, truly believe it, but he's at least partly convinced, for now.

 

*

 

There's a sense of déjà vu in their goodbye. Same place, same time of day even. Dean waiting in the car, watching no doubt.

There's familiarity this time though, curve of her hips against him, the brush of her hair as it blows against his face. He knows her scent. And it's harder.

"We—we've got stuff to sort out. Things we need to deal with. But, when—"

She reaches a hand up to his mouth, puts her fingers over his lips. "Don't promise anything."

He nods and turns away. He makes a silent promise though, that he'll try. One day, he'll try.

 

*

 

He wants to run back, like he did before. He wants to lift her up off her feet, carry her away, somewhere safe, somewhere wonderful. He wants to make her forget about evil and fear and all the dangers there are. Instead he thinks of the large bag of salt he's left under her sink, a note taped to it. The gun in the case in her bedroom.

He's changed her life, and he can't feel good about it, even though she's smiling and waving and doesn't hold it against him.

The wind lifts her hair and she brushes it off her face. He gets into the car and closes the door.

He tries not to look back, but as they're turning onto the road he can't help but look. There's a tree in the way though, and after that a wall. She's out of sight.

Dean hands him a map and a destination. Michigan next. Sam navigates.

AC/DC. More familiar than jazz or Dylan even.

They don't need to talk.

 

*

 

He remembers a week later, picking a leaf out of the homemade stew a grateful blind shopkeeper makes him and Dean, a thank you for ridding her shop of pixies.

Bay, it reminds him of Jess. She used to hang a branch of bay leaves up in the kitchen, dangling from the ceiling like it wanted to be mistletoe.

There's a charm, uses bay leaves. It's a tree of the old gods, strong. He doesn't think she needs strength, but she thinks she does, so he phones her, leaves a message. Tells her how to make a simple amulet to ward off evil.

Two days later. She phones him back.

"It won't keep you away, will it?" she jokes.

"Never," he says.

Another reason now.


End file.
